When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was to write, write and give speeches about.
But then I turned thirty, and I wrote nothing but text messages flirty, and my hidden urge was also turning out.
I saw an ad in the newspaper, they take classes to teach how to write.
However expensive they seem, drenched in my glorious dream, my childlike heart joined them in delight.
For last 6 weeks, I gained the knowledge about processes and thoughts.
And I still couldn’t finish alone not a single assignment known or unknown, as I was exposed to my most insecure spot.
I was assigned a time, a space on my own, to visit everyday until I am inspired.
I started showing up to the session, for my conscious it was transgression, And yet to write a famous book was my own desire.
I remember my first meeting with the teacher, I reached her office 10 minutes early,
Lost in noticing everything – a diary, a laptop, some flowers, a family portrait, a Bible,
Everything was well kept, arranged pretty properly.
She had asked me to start thinking, as that hour and space was something I could call mine.
The only task was to write all – a page, a para, few words whatever struck at that time,
There were no rules, I could cross any line.
That was my second week, I stared at the couple who’d been kissing on the side of the road,
I got distracted by those ugly moaning sounds, and their performance in public,
While waiting to relieve art from my twisted brain’s average load.
That made me think about my life – beautiful, full of laughter, friends and lot of money,
There were hardly rainy days to write about , an event of sadness here or there
But if counted, most of them were sunny.
My session had ended on the toll of 10 o’clock, it didn’t even feel as the writer’s block.
Such a fortunate life of mine, but unable to write was the only disappointment
Once again the disbelief whispered in a shock.
This time, I decided to quit and left a biographical note to my teacher at the table.
‘Annoyed’, ‘mad’, ‘outraged’, ‘helpless’ are amongst the words that I used,
and artistically slide them under her Bible.
On my way out, outraged, I bumped into a man, sweet, I felt I knew him since ages.
He asked me out for coffee which followed by a long chat,
He promised we’d meet again and showered all his praises.
Sometimes coffee-shops, sometimes theaters, at times my house, again and again we met.
Unplanned, involuntary, this affair of adventure,
and those deliciously delirious love’s intoxicating effect.
When he sang me a love song, honeyed words, the day he bought a ring of diamond.
Months passed by, and I deviated from those stupid writing class
Indulging into exhilarating, special, and emotionally intense bond.
Soon, he broke into my house, murdered my dog, police said he was a goon.
He not only stole my money, but that diamond ring
with which he proposed and promised me stars and moon.
Consumed by intrusive thinking, trying to make sense of everything on those sleepless nights
I decided to reschedule my writing class,
even if ‘my calling’ was unresponsive but that was all right!
Without postponing, angrily weeping, I poured my heart on that notepad and cursed my life.
I left without looking at the piece, only to visit next day
to again write down my kaleidoscopic strife.
When finally I stopped writing, I saw her appear to me, raw, primeval, intrinsic! What a good omen!
I couldn’t believe I was encountering my first writing,
my precursive work of art – my destiny – ‘My Poem’.
I sat writing on that desk for ages, until one day, life made me bleed vulnerably on the page.
Revealing the parts of me that I’d rather hide –
Somewhat creative but cathartic life that I confess.
Now that I sit on my own desk surrounded by the books I wrote with dark reflections
and I’d think now what is more important for an artist –
parts of passion, pathos, or painful lessons full of imperfections?
– Laleeta
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